And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII. Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; IX. And none did love him-though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea! none did love him-not his lemans dearBut pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. X. Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not Before his weary pilgrimage begun: If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI. His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight, fair locks, and snowy Whose large blue eyes, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. XII. The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea He seized his harp, which he at times could string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good Night. » 1. "Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land-Good Night! 2. "A few short hours and He will rise Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 3. "Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our fleetest falcon scare can fly 4. 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I For I have from my father gone, And have no friend, save these alone, 5. 'My father bless'd me fervently, If I thy guileless bosom had, 6. "Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale ? Or dost thou dread a French foeman? 'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 7. 'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, But 1, who am of lighter mood, 8. "For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour? Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes For pleasures past I do not grieve, My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. 9. "And now I'm in the world alone, But long ere I come back again, 10. "With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! XIV. On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few ru. stics reap. XV. Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! But man would mar them with an impious hand: And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. XVII. But whoso entereth within this town, That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, |